


My Brother's Keeper

by Inner_Devil



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bullying Mention, Drug Abuse Mention, Other, Suicide mention, death mention, drug mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 03:50:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inner_Devil/pseuds/Inner_Devil
Summary: Mycroft has always been there for his little brother, even if Sherlock doesn't know it or want to admit it. Over the years, there have been many times when he's had to rescue Sherlock and bring him home. These are just a few.





	My Brother's Keeper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsycatcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsycatcher/gifts).



> There is some angst towards the end, just sad scenarios. Enjoy!

Sherlock loved playing pirates. The little curly-haired boy could spend hours, even entire days, running around with one of his father's belts strapped around his waist with a foam sword hanging by his side. An old red bandanna kept his wild curls out of his face most of the time, though sometimes even it couldn't control his mess of hair. Add in an eye patch and a tattered old black-and-white striped shirt and Sherlock became the most feared pirate in all the world! 

Usually he played on his own out in the yard, making up all sorts of stories and scenarios. His mother always loved how imaginative her little boy was, though her older son was more practical. Even still, the pair could be inseparable at times. Today, Mycroft had been sitting outside working on some homework in his school uniform (a simple white shirt with long sleeves and a striped red and white tie, with khakis) when Sherlock insisted on playing with his big brother. So the ginger boy got to his feet, playing along just to make Sherlock happy. But after hours of running around, Mycroft noticed his baby brother starting to get tired, not that Sherlock would ever admit it. 

"C'mon, 'Lock. We'd  better go inside," Mycroft insisted, only to receive a pout in response.

"I don' wanna! I wanna keep playing!" Sherlock whined, even as he yawned. 

"I know, but dinner's going to be ready soon," Mycroft reasoned, then leaned down with a little smile. "What if I carry you?" he offered, knowing how Sherlock loved piggyback rides.

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he eagerly agreed, climbing onto his older brother's back and clinging to him as they headed back through the grass towards their house. After a moment, Mycroft glanced back and smiled to see his baby brother dozing against his back.

"I've got you, 'Lock. I've always got you," he murmured.

* * *

Sherlock was not a well-liked boy in school. Though he was incredibly bright, he seemed to have trouble making friends. He had no filter whatsoever, and his mouth often got him into trouble. He said the first thing that came to mind more often than not, and tended to reveal things about his classmates and teachers that they would rather not have known. It wasn't his fault. He could read everyone like a book, and it as just dull to keep it to himself. He didn't understand why nobody wanted to be around him.

After some time though, the other children's general dislike of him grew worse and he was being bullied. They'd make fun of his wild hair or his lack of friends. And when he tried to get back at them by figuring out rather awful things about them, he only ended up being beaten up. Needless to say, Mycroft was far from happy when he figured out what was happening to his baby brother. The teenager was fiercely protective, even if he hid it behind a mask of rebellion. Mycroft had taken to leather vests and smoking once he became a teenager, his red hair now styled to look carefully effortless. Most of the time, he could be found with a cigarette tucked behind his ear and the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, the freckles littering his cheeks drawing people's attention to his eyes immediately. 

Nearly every day after he knew Sherlock was being bullied, Mycroft came to pick him up from school. Most of the children wouldn't touch Sherlock with his older brother around. After all, with his carefully selected appearance, Mycroft could look pretty intimidating. But today was different. When Mycroft arrived at the school, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. So, calling for his brother, the ginger began searching the school grounds for him only to spot the brunet being beaten up by a group of larger boys.

"Hey! Get off of him!" Mycroft shouted, racing over and pushing his way through the crowd to block their blows. As soon as they realized they'd been caught, the boys dispersed and Sherlock was able to stop shielding himself.

"Are you all right, 'Lock?" Mycroft asked, leaning down to help Sherlock up to his feet.

"'m fine," Sherlock muttered, hating to admit he needed any help. A black eye was already beginning to form though, as well as a split lip, not to mention his ruined uniform. He was caked in dirt and his jumper was torn in various places. 

"Come on. Your knees are all scraped. I'll carry you home," Mycroft insisted, hoisting his baby brother up onto his back and heading back to the sidewalk to go home. Both of the Holmes brothers shot a glare back at the group of boys who'd decided to beat Sherlock up and it soon became well known that if you messed with one, you got both.

* * *

Sherlock's teen years were filled with headaches for both his parents and his older brother. He had not only taken up Mycroft's habit of smoking, but had become involved in more serious drugs as well. It quieted his mind, he insisted, but that didn't make it any less dangerous. It didn't save Mycroft any worry either. The ginger had recently landed a minor position as an intern in the government and was hoping to work his way up the ladder there. But he could hardly concentrate on his work when Sherlock disappeared for days at a time only to come home high off his arse with fresh track marks on his arms. More than once, he'd returned with bruises, scrapes, and cuts, though thankfully he'd never needed stitches. He had sprained his wrist a few times, and nearly broke his ankle.

"Sherlock," Mycroft groaned when he returned home late one night. He'd decided to peek into Sherlock's room and see if he was home only to find his bed empty and untouched. He'd clearly left after their parents had gone to bed to avoid a lecture and who knew what sort of trouble he'd gotten himself into by now.

Despite the fact that they were both older now - Sherlock in his teens and Mycroft in his early twenties - Mycroft was still incredibly protective over his baby brother. To him, Sherlock would always be that little boy playing pirates in the yard. And so Mycroft, still dressed in his blue pinstripe suit, went back out into the night to find his brother. There were a few locations he knew Sherlock frequented, so he started there. Luckily, he managed to find his brother in the second crack den he'd searched. The air reeked with the stench of several people who were in desperate need of a shower, as well as urine and sweat-soaked mattresses, mold, and a few unidentifiable odors. Mycroft did his best to hold his breath as he entered, finding Sherlock strung out on a mattress. He was passed out, a used needle beside the mattress he currently occupied.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed sadly, grabbing his brother by the arm and hoisting the lanky teen onto his back. "Let's get you home."

Despite the difficulty of handling Sherlock's long limbs while he was unconscious, Mycroft managed to carry him out to the streets and got a cab back home. Sherlock would later wake in his own bed with a terrible headache, completely unaware of how he'd gotten home. He wouldn't question it though, not even acknowledging Mycroft the next day. Mycroft, for his part, didn't say a word about it either. He'd long since given up on lecturing Sherlock about using drugs. The brunet would do what he wanted anyway. Instead, they had a deal. If Sherlock was going to use, he had to have a list of anything in his system. No matter what he injected or snorted or whatever, there was always a list. And Mycroft always knew where his brother was, returning him home each time he strayed. 

* * *

A crowd formed at the base of Bart's, strangers muttering as they stared at the body before them. Everyone knew who it was, thanks to the publicity that had surrounded him in the months prior. Sherlock Holmes, the infamous detective who'd lied about everything, was dead. His body lay on the pavement, blood decorating his pale, lifeless face. But among the crowd was one who knew him, who mourned him.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, rushing forward and pushing his way through the crowd. "Please, let me through! He's my friend!"

The crowd slowly parted, allowing John to kneel by the body of his best friend. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. Surely this wasn't real. It had to be a nightmare or something. Sherlock would never truly take his own life, would he? Then the words of Sally Donovan echoed in his mind, what she'd said the first time they'd met.  _One day, we'll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there._ This was far from what she'd meant, but it was true nonetheless. John, the brave soldier who'd faced death once himself, now broke down and cried over his friend, completely unaware of the eyes on him. Mycroft knew what was happening, watching from a distance until the crowd scattered and only John was left with the paramedics.

"Dr. Watson," Mycroft greeted quietly, finally stepping forward. "It's time. You should go home. Grieve there. Sitting here will do you no good. He isn't coming back."

"How can you be so heartless?! Your brother's dead and you don't even care, do you?" John snapped, angry and grieving and just absolutely tormented.

"On the contrary. His loss breaks my heart. However, I must carry on the way he would wish. You know he was never a sentimental man," Mycroft replied simply. "Go home, Dr. Watson. I have business to attend to regarding his body and funeral arrangements. But you should grieve privately. I have a car that will take you back to Baker Street."

John, still in disbelief that Mycroft could be so cold, got into the car and allowed himself to be returned home. Little did he know that his friend was far from dead, except in the eyes of the public. A few tricks made him appear dead, including a drug that would paralyze him for a few hours so he would look like a corpse. Mycroft, however, was part of the plan and just sighed as he looked down at Sherlock's 'corpse'.

"Oh, Sherlock. What have you done?" Mycroft sighed, leaning down and picking up his brother once again. Settling Sherlock's limp body against his back, he carried his baby brother into the ambulance so they could be transported to a secure location without anyone noticing. No matter what the scenario, Mycroft would always be his brother's keeper. He would always carry Sherlock home.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the artwork that inspired this whole story: http://whimsycatcher.tumblr.com/post/136598154738
> 
> Thanks so much to whimsycatcher for letting me create this fic based on their art!


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